"The judge's," Thinka said.
Grip comprehended that he would not be wanted just now, and rose.
Thinka hastened out into a side room and came in again with a dollar bill—"Take it, Grip—a little assistance till you get some pupils."
His hand hesitated a little before he took it. "One—must—must—" He seized his cap and went out.
Down by the gate he stopped a little, and looked back. The window had been thrown open there.
"Airing out after Grip," he muttered bitterly, while he took the direction of the valley, with his comforter high up around his neck and his cap, which down in the main parish had replaced his old, curled up felt hat, down over his ears; in the cold east wind he protected his hands in the pockets of his old thin coat, which was flapping about his emaciated form.
It was not an uncommon route, whither he went over the mountains in his widely extended rambles in the summer, or, as now, in the short, dark midwinter, when he was obliged to confine himself to the highway.
This country district had an attraction for him, as it were; he listened and watched everywhere he came for even the least bit of what he could catch up about Inger-Johanna, while he carefully avoided her vicinity.
"The young lady of Gilje," as she was called, lived in a little house up there, which she had bought with one of the four thousand dollars that old Aunt Alette had given to her by will.